


Angel Eyes Comes for John Lennon

by waveofahand



Category: McLennon - Fandom, The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Frank Sinatra shows up, John Has A Broken Heart, John Lennon is drinking, John Lennon needs a hug, John really really misses Paul, Last Beatles tour, M/M, NO DEATH, Shea Stadium Concert, he is a Mess, reference to suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-12 13:59:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19133452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waveofahand/pseuds/waveofahand
Summary: Images of the Beatles came tumbling forth as John’s hands shook to catch them -- those beautiful boys, his brothers. He managed to grab most of them before they hit the floor but missed one, no, two. Putting the pile aside, he reached down to gather them.Paul. Of course, Paul. Fucking beautiful Paul, in gorgeous black and white, asleep – those high cheekbones, those ridiculously long lashes overlaying them, that five o’clock shadow he could never keep fully tamed. Looking every bit the angel you wanted to believe he was."You haven't changed a bit,"sang Frank Sinatra."Gorgeous as ever, I must admit..."“Ah, you’re a right fucker, Frank,” John said to the air, “anyone ever tell you you’re a fucker? Would they dare?” No, probably not, John thought. After a while, when you’re a star, people stop saying “no” to you. And that’s when your hunger goes away, and your art begins to die, doesn’t it, until you curl into a fetal position and cry out for Mother.Only three people had ever said “no” to John -- said it and really meant it. Mimi. Yoko. And Paul. Stubborn bastard. Heavy and dense as a boulder. If he didn’t want to be moved, there was no moving him.





	Angel Eyes Comes for John Lennon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rioviolina who has been so encouraging thank you!](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Rioviolina+who+has+been+so+encouraging+thank+you%21).



**Dakota Apartments, New York City, Sometime in the early 1970’s**

 

It was only 10:30 in the evening but for John Lennon, it was a quarter to three, and there was _no one in the place, except you and me_ – ‘me’ being Frank Sinatra. Browsing his vinyl collection he had happened across Sinatra’s _One for My Baby_ album and had slipped it onto the turntable without thinking much about it beyond the need to hear something unintrusive and quiet in the background of his life, like musical wallpaper.  

Unintrusive? Quiet?

Might as well have turned on one of Yoko’s primal scream numbers, because Ol’ Blue Eyes’ stuff -- that boozy saloon voice, those bluesy horns, those lonely songs of heartbreak and solitude and disappointment and loss -- they were intruding like hell on Lennon, reaching right into him, sneaky-like, and tugging at his heart chamber by chamber. He was sure that by the end of the night he would be dead from the constant cardiac reach-and-squeeze because it was just one murderously beautiful heartache after another, this album – “What’s New?” and “Only the Lonely” and “Willow, Weep for Me…”

It was music to drink by, or pretend to kill yourself by if your love had gone bad, if your love had slipped through your fingers…or if you’d chased your love away while trying to protect your own heart.

Well, no, that wasn’t a productive thought, was it? Lennon wasn’t feeling suicidal and didn’t approve of suicide, anyway. It was messy, cowardly; it ruined the lives of others, and a fair man knew that the only life he was allowed to ruin was his own, and not the other guy’s.

No one had the right to ruin someone else’s life, just because they were in pain, did they?

No, no, they shouldn’t.

So, no, not music to die by, after all.

It was music to get good ‘n drunk by, anyway, and John and Frank were downing shots of whisky and telling each other war stories about their old loves, singing together, _We’re drinkin’ my friend, to the end, of a brief episode. Make one for my baby, and one more…for the road_.

Probably, he should have changed the record but he didn’t want to, because tonight something in John wished to let himself feel just how lonely he was. Lonely outside, because there wasn’t a friend around. Lonely inside because, well…he’d been lonely inside since he was a little boy, hadn’t he, then? Except for a few years…

It was curious to feel so lonely, he thought, when he in truth he -- the great John Lennon, fearless icon of the wannabe iconoclasts, whose wife was currently battened down in another apartment, probably on the phone to the Asian markets, wheeling and dealing to make them even richer than they already were – could not remember the last time he had actually been alone, really alone, for even one day. Even now, there were assistants and handlers keeping just out of sight, giving him an illusion of privacy and autonomy, but they were always there.

Actually, now he thought on it, John really couldn’t recall a day spent alone since the Beatles, and all that mad togetherness – four young lads going through something so unprecedented they almost couldn’t relate to anyone else on the planet and so they spent every moment together -- even hiding out with each other in the bathrooms of their hotel rooms, and calling that being safely “alone.”

Since he’d met Paul McCartney, or even before that, while he was in school and putting together the Quarrymen -- from then until today, never a day alone.  Hell, he didn’t even go to Spain to shoot that movie without Neil in tow.

He hadn’t even gotten to that last Paris weekend with Paul, in 1966, without Neil and Brian hanging round.

Then why did he tonight feel so bereft -- as though he’d spent decades upon decades separated from everyone he ever loved…anyone who had ever loved him?

Maybe because everyone was gone. His mother, his uncles and aunties…Brian…Stu.

There was Mimi, she was a constant, but also an ocean away.

The lads were still there, too, but not around him, not often, and Paul…well, Paul not at all.

Paul was gone from his world for the foreseeable-ever.

Now there was only Yoko. Just Yoko, off somewhere, and staff, always around. And a very fine whisky-with-no-e because that’s the right stuff, innit, Frankie? Let’s have another, then!

He was bombing ice cubes into a tumbler when the heavily lacquered white box caught his eye, his little “memory chest” kept tucked into a corner of the bookshelf beneath a heavy white bowl, almost invisible amid all the white, white, white surrounding it.

It was a souvenir from Japan, from the last year they had toured. Paul had bought it for him, and stuffed it with pictures of the band, and a hash pipe, and a variety of Beatle Buttons (“I love John!” “I love Paul!” “I love Ringo!” “I love George!”) and other fan kitsch. Even before the despised American tour of that summer, they had sensed it might be their last time at the rodeo before becoming a studio band, and they'd had a good idea that if that miserable season signaled the end of the beginning, it might also mark the beginning of the end.

 _The end; the love you take; the love you make,_ John thought as he traced the outline of the box. He hadn’t looked inside it practically since the day Paul had given it to him, and he wasn’t sure he should look, now.

But Frank was was really cranking it up -- the sorrow running high in this private little Songs of Regret and Too Much Fucking Loss concert, playing just for John. “Ah fuck, let’s do it,” John thought. He lifted the lid and came face-to-face with his past, just as Sinatra’s gloriously controlled legato asked, _What's new? How is the world treating you?_

Images of the Beatles came tumbling forth as John’s hands shook to catch them -- those beautiful boys, his brothers. He managed to grab most of them before they hit the floor but missed one, no, two. Putting the pile aside, he reached down to gather them.

Paul. Of course, Paul. Fucking beautiful Paul, in gorgeous black and white, asleep – those high cheekbones, those ridiculously long lashes overlaying them, that five o’clock shadow he could never keep fully tamed. Looking every bit the angel you wanted to believe he was.

 _You haven't changed a bit._ _Gorgeous as ever, I must admit._

“Ah, you’re a right fucker, Frank,” John said to the air, “anyone ever tell you you’re a fucker? Would they dare?” No, probably not, John thought. After a while, when you’re a star, people stop saying “no” to you. And that’s when your hunger goes away, and your art begins to die, doesn’t it, until you curl into a fetal position and cry out for Mother.

Only three people had ever said “no” to John -- said it and really meant it. Mimi. Yoko. And Paul. Stubborn bastard. Heavy and dense as a boulder. If he didn’t want to be moved, there was no moving him.

The second picture. Another Paul. Paul, impossibly young and having just exhaled one of those mighty clouds that said he’d been smoking a ciggie without finding any release to his tension. That he’s been smoking deep and angry, or smoking worried. Or smoking sad. John couldn’t hold back a small smile as he traced an outline of Paul’s face, again in need of a shave. Christ, so beautiful. But so distracted.

John’s smile dropped as he considered the shot. Something had been on Paul’s mind, there, John knew, because his fringe was tugged forward, as though McCartney had been worrying his hair, as he always did when he was puzzling his way through something and not wanting to share his thoughts with anyone. Not even with John.

Ever-restless Paul…

_What's new_

_How did that romance come through_

_We haven't met since then_

_Gee but it's nice to see you again_

With a sigh, John put the image aside, and began flicking through the other shots. Leathers in Hamburg -- God, George looked a right baby, then, didn’t he? And there was Pete Best, with that squiff. And Stu, poor, doomed Stuart. Astrid took that shot, he remembered. He was almost surprised that Paul had included it. He’d always been so jealous of Stu, and John’s regard for him.

All so young. Ringo not yet aboard. Oh, there he was, showing up in the next snap, new to the band and still sporting that grey slash of hair at the side, looking tough and worldly amid the kids. John loved Ringo. He loved George. He loved them, all of those boys. Such heady days! God, so much ahead of them.

“Yer a sentimental slob, Lennon,” he said aloud, willing himself to swallow back a rising sense of bittersweet loss along with his whisky. He flicked through the rest of the images quickly – shots of Mal, Brian, Neil. All the fellas with their wives at an airport, Cynthia seeming oddly pushed aside and alone while John and Paul stood together, arms on shoulders, big smiles.

That needed another gulp – a sound guilt-chaser -- and he began to slip the photos back into the box, because this wasn’t feeling fun, anymore. What was that thing Paul always said – you don’t look back, you keep to the day. Yeah, maybe something in that, John thought now, even though he’d called it a cold philosophy at the time.

He brought out the hash pipe, fingering its molded shape, taking a sniff at the bowl. He remembered this! Something he and Paul had made good use of, together. John bit down on the mouthpiece full of indents from his own teeth and Paul’s and smiled, recalling that his partner was never funnier (and Paul could be very funny, indeed), than when he was high. When he was loosened up and permitting his own mind a bit of freedom from all of his father’s rules, and the biting cord of blame he would whip himself with over his dead mother, or any of his faults and imperfections. Paul high was Paul brought low, but in the best way, pulled out of his own controlled and ever-busy head, into the muck-and-tumble with John and the rest of them.

He went back to the pictures, thinking he might pull out that one of Paul smoking. It was gorgeous shot, so rare, so him. Worth keeping handy. As he picked it out of the pile, his fingers latched on to another image. And John gasped when he saw it.

It was a private photo, nothing ever released to the public, and John wasn’t sure who had taken it. Well, they were all camera mad back then, hauling them about and taking shots of each other in every weird and embarrassing way they could. But once in a while one of them got off a good snap, and here someone -- probably Ringo? – had got something…something…

Oh, God…

And at that moment, good old Frank, with that spooky synchronicity that had him crooning all the right stuff at all the wrong moments, couldn’t have launched into a worse number.  

_I try to think that love's not around_

_But it's uncomfortably near_

_My old heart ain't gaining no ground_

_Because my angel eyes ain't here_

Ah, Christ, Frank, shut up, just shut up.

There was John, almost 25 years old. There was Paul, just 23. It was 1965, and John knew precisely where this picture was taken. New York City, August 16. They day after they’d played to 56,000 screaming fans at Shea Stadium in what all of them would forever consider their best show, their most joyful show, the thirty best minutes of their careers, together or apart. The pinnacle. The moment they came alive to the fact that they were experiencing the fulfillment of a dream they’d worked so hard for, so single-mindedly and for so long. They were the biggest band in the world, bigger than Elvis, and for the moment everybody loved them, even the press.

It had all come true.

They’d celebrated all night, knowing they had the next day – the planned rain date for Shea – fairly free, and as John looked at the image he remembered it all. The Warwick Hotel in midtown, on 6th Avenue and 54th Street. They’d met Bob Dylan, and caught up with the Ronettes, and done some interviews, but this picture, this scene, it had happened earlier, before all that.

 _Angel eyes, that old devil sent_ _  
They glow unbearably bright_

There was John, sitting at breakfast in his dressing gown, looking a little worse for wear but clearly happy and smiling broadly as his cornflakes went unaddressed.

And there was Paul, behind him, both his arms encircling John warmly, with intimacy and possessiveness -- as though he’d laid a claim, as in fact he had.  _Paul,_ _incandescent._

He was dressed and shaven and pulled-together as always, and his head was pressed against John’s, cheek-to-cheek, and his smile was wide and open and his eyes so…his eyes so… _okay, yes, Frank, fine. His eyes so unbearably bright! Yes, okay?_

Those fucking angel eyes. Looking straight into the camera, that smile and those eyes. Those fucking sexy, seductive, heavy-lidded, all-seeing, alert, sun-bright, sensual, hazel, brown, amber kaleidoscoping, ensnaring, moon-bright, erotic, almost predatory eyes that either came down from heaven or up from hell, depending on the circumstance.

Every time those eyes met his, John was lost to them. Every. Single. Time.

They would be sitting across from each other in an interview, and he’d be watching Paul, who looked normal and beautiful, just…like Paul. And then Paul would look at him, and those eyes would _spark_ – they would jump with light, like struck flint, and John would feel his heart pound, and a rush of blood to his gut and lower. It happened so often that John sometimes felt like he was in perpetual heat, like he was carrying a tiny pilot light within him and all Paul would have to do was look at him to rouse a flame.

If he looked at him with a smile, too, then it was all over for John. _Kaboom!_

Every time, every day, Paul had that effect on him and it had been true almost from the first they’d met.

And the thing was, John knew, those bright eyes could spark for anyone. He watched it happen in Australia in ’64, when Jimmy Nicol was filling in for Ringo and the drummer had been shyly standing on the edge of press conference, wondering if he belonged. Paul had spotted him and _spark!_ His eyes lit up for Jimmy as he called him over to the table so the lad could get that singular Beatles-meet-absurd-questions experience for himself.

It was a hard truth, sometimes, for John to accept, but eventually he did: Paul’s light wasn’t something exclusive, meant only for him. If Paul liked you and you respected him, he was loyal to you. If he liked you, he lit up for you and you’d think he was giving you every part of him. He somehow threw a switch and you would feel like the only person in the room, the most important person in his life. You would feel kissed by heaven, known by God.

And if Paul had no use for you, those eyes could feel as cold as spent coal, with no life in them at all. On that last concert tour in America, they’d sat for an interview, and John recalled watching the whole press cohort cowed into good behavior on the strength of one mild yet terrifying exchange between Paul and a particularly obtuse reporter who’d asked yet another tiresome question about Beatle hair, and whether they were wearing wigs.

Paul had smiled, almost paternally, as though he were a father talking to a child much too old to still believe in Santa. “Do you believe that?  Do you?" He had asked it with deceptive softness before answering definitively, "No, it’s not true.”

John thought Paul had answered with remarkable grace and composure considering how sick of that question – and with America’s freakish fixation on their hair – they had all grown. But the reporter had persisted, “But your hair looks much more uniform than it did two years ago.”

And Paul, still smiling, had shut those thrilling eyes down, denying any more of his light to the idiot with two flippant words: _“Thanks, honey."_   The room had chuckled but had also felt the chill, and the questions improved.

Remembering that moment now, John still considered it one of the most badass dismissals he’d ever seen, purely because Paul had managed, even then, to come across as The McCharmly. The ultimate diplomat, the smoothest of smooth operators.

It was something John could never do. He had no guile -- always showed all of his edges. He was the knife you could always see coming, while Paul, with that face, those angel eyes…he was a razor blade in the cotton candy, the stiletto hidden within the velvet glove. He was beautiful in friendship, but a glittering holy terror, outside of it.

But what people didn’t know about Paul, at that moment, was that he was not being cruel simply because he could – and yes, he could be every bit as biting as Lennon if pressed to it. The truth was, Paul had been unwell for most of that last tour, often violently ill, both from stress and his always-delicate digestive system, which seemed to have a hairtrigger intolerance for any number of foods and contributed to more seeping airline vomit bags than John wanted to recall. Paul had passed out more than once while in the US, thanks to terrifyingly frequent and debilitating bouts of dehydration that came with it all. 

The whole band had been stressed out during that tour because Americans seemed ignorantly determined to equate John’s observation about teenagers, Jesus, and the popularity of the Beatles with something he never said at all: that the Beatles were, “bigger than Jesus.”

He’d never said it; it was never what he’d meant, but at every city along the tour the Beatles had to put aside their concerns about credible death threats in order to submit to another mind-numbing presser, where the whole stupid, rather manufactured controversy played out again, with the same thoughtless questions, over and over. They were all tired of it, but Paul – feeling unwell, weary with people who seemed unable to think and reason, and perhaps tired of defending John -- no, that wasn’t fair, John corrected himself immediately. Paul always defended John. Always, he had. 

Whatever it was, in 1966 Paul had had enough of the ladies and gentlemen of the press. He never missed a conference but his patience was wearing out as he sat, looking sallow, exhausted, his eyes as wary as they were weary, his beautiful face a little puffy from all the sickness, and the meds he was being given to keep him on his feet. But he was alive and alert and he still brought an A-game into the show, mixing it up like a champ, giving it back to press at double the strength they were doling it out, working them like a socially-adept boxer with a good science, a ready change up, and a flattening hook when one was needed -- he would deftly turn a question toward something else, or drop a surprisingly cutting or risqué joke – whatever it took to spare John any more of the nonsense.

John had never loved him more for it, or treated him so poorly day by day, because of it. He couldn’t bear to watch what his own rash and unguarded tongue (and his delayed resistance toward making any sort of apology) was putting his mates through. His burden of guilt felt so heavy that he had to punish everyone around him for it -- the band, the whole team, and especially Paul.

Paul had always taken the brunt of John's abuse, dependably putting up with it until he could distract John, or tease him out of his mood. He could often do that with a look, or [a hand to John's shoulder -- that reassuring squeeze](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20499656) \-- and at no visible cost to Paul's own serenity or self-control. But in August of '66 John's nerves were so raw he could not be easily handled. He was merciless to everyone, using his tongue to verbally cut at whoever was nearby, and Paul had been there, the one always standing next to him, willing to be shred to ribbons by John's endless mouth, his endless striking-out. Nearly every day Paul, in his weakened state, would endure John's irrational, terrified, guilt-ridden heat for as long as he could until he had to go vomit somewhere and then drag himself to a couch, and hopefully to sleep.

John, meanwhile, would feel horrible about having so abused his Macca. From the corner of his eye, he'd see Paul lying there, clammy and pale and suffering, and his own self-loathing would become unstoppable, his guilt would increase exponentially. And that meant moving on to his next victim in order to find some relief -- George, or Ringo, or Mal, or Neil or Brian -- any one of whom would invariably tell Lennon to sod off and then walk away, leaving him alone with his own thoughts and terrors. Alone and panicked like a five year-old boy who'd set fire to the kitchen and didn't know how to scream for help. 

But Paul took it, every day that summer. He took all of John's heat. And he stayed. 

Remembering it now, recalling [the miserable bastard he had been](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20699831/chapters/49169483) to the only person who had ever stayed -- the onliest person he ever really wanted to stay, needed to stay -- he couldn't bear himself. He felt ripe with the scent of his own self-hatred, and he had no way to escape from it. There was nowhere to run, from here.

 _Need I say that my love's misspent_ _  
Misspent with angel eyes tonight_

Was he crying?

Seriously, was he crying? Shut up, Frank, I’m not crying, _you’re_ crying.

But he _was_ crying. The stupid damn photo from the day after Shea -- just one year before all that misery -- was still in his trembling hand and John had been staring at it through all of his remembrances, and now he was lost.

The day after Shea. Well, the day after the night after Shea…there had been nothing like it for them [since Paris](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20611301), that [sweet trip they'd taken together](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19119496) a few years earlier, and there never was a night or a morning like it again, in all their time together.

Post-concert, after the first rush of celebration and the first drinks, the first tokes of grass, the band had mellowed out with friends and a number of pretty birds willing to do whatever might be asked of them, at the dropping of a word, or even just a look. But the boys had wanted – had really _needed_ – to spend a few minutes privately, just in each other’s company, in that oxymoronic state of being “alone, together." The four of them had crowded into the room John and Paul were sharing and they’d hugged and slapped each other on the back, and even kissed each other’s cheeks (like Italian brothers at a wedding, George said), as they basked in the afterglow of that historic show and its singular energy – reliving it all as best they could through each other’s eyes and recollections.

And they’d shared a joint, licking their lips, taking along that little piece of each other that came through in the moisture of the doobie, and they’d laughed and hugged some more. And then John had pulled Paul next to him by the waist, and called him his bunny, and Paul had said, “John, you’re ridiculous,” and John said, “Alright, then, my _Princess_ ,” and as they all laughed Paul reached one arm around John’s neck and pulled him close and then, well he did it. He kissed John right there, in front of George and Ringo – kissed him with his fullness of his lips, (God, those lips) and with the fullness of his tongue, and with the fullness of his love, and John had been thrilled and terrified and unable to do anything but let him, even as his mind raced in a panic. _Oh, God, oh Christ, oh what, oh, God, oh, Paul…_

And when the kiss ended, Paul turned to look at the others, standing there so silently, and he smiled that smile and was all aglow – he was literally glowing at them -- saying, “Sorry, lads, couldn’t keep it in any longer.”

John would never forget Ringo – would always love him for the way he’d shrugged it off. It was so Ringo, “Well, if you can’t keep it in, you gotta let it out, don’t ya? Could get a cramp otherwise.”

And how George mirrored Ringo’s action with a smile, saying, “We knew it. You’re neither of you as sly as you think. We have eyes, you know.”

“And ears,” said Ringo.

“Aye, even when the room’s across the way,” George agreed.

“Gets loud sometimes. We turn up the telly.”

And then they were all together, in a great group hug, laughing and there was never anything like it, not for John, who felt free, really _free_ , for the first time in his life. He’d always thought he’d be the one to drop his guard, put everything at risk to show himself, and his love, in that way.

But it had been Paul who'd done it. Stupid, fucking, splendid, brilliant Paul.

The band had rejoined their guests and John and Paul had spent the rest of the evening moving about the room, talking to everyone but not really there, their heads full of each other, watching each other from across the room with small smiles, and each time they made eye contact Paul would spark, and spark, and spark his light John’s way as they waited for the moment they could slip away, and just disappear into each other.

It had been such a night!

And in the morning…such a morning. Their first morning as an open couple – as open as they could ever be, under the circumstances, and wonderfully in company with their mates.

John rummaged through the box, wondering if there might be another picture – it would have been taken just a few minutes later, when Paul had draped himself over John and kissed him good morning, and sat on John’s lap and eaten all of his cornflakes as though he’d been denied sustenance for a flat decade.

And all John could do was keep his arms around Paul's waist and watch him eat -- keep his eyes glued on Paul and smile, his head empty of any thought beyond, _I love him. I love him. I love this man, my beautiful Macca, I love him._

“I miss you…” he whispered, now, eyes closed and throat straining. “God, Paul, I do. I miss you.”

_Pardon me but I got to run_   
_The fact's uncommonly clear_

Yeah, he was crying – just fuck off, now, Frank, no one likes you! There was no second picture. That precious good morning kiss wasn’t there. With all the photos his bandmates snapped off each other over all those years, was there not a single shot of a kiss between them? But Paul had slipped this picture, this telling picture, into his gift -- had wanted John to have it. A picture of them in simple, joyful, freedom.

 _Ah, Paul..._ and suddenly John Lennon was curled over, helpless and bent almost double, sobbing in sloppy heaves, his nose running, his tears slipping down his face and blurring his vision, and he was whispering and weeping before that image, blubbering like a young widow, shivering as the words came unstoppably forth, “Oh, _my Macca_. I’m sorry. I love you, I’m so sorry." It took everything John had in him to not wail out loud and bring a staffer running, as he vibrated with a grief he should have known better than to tempt to the surface.

Instead of a wail, there were staccato breaths carrying one groan of regret after another.  
  
"I never meant to hurt you, Paul baby."

"You know I didn’t mean it." ( _Oh, God, he knew that, didn't he?  Please, he knew that, right?_ )  
  
"I'm a cruel bastard." ( _Getting loud there, Lennon, baying like a tortured old dog!_ ).

"But I loved you..." ( _Breathe, don't sob. Bring it down, bring it down, lad..._ )  
  
"I never stopped. I always will...love you.” he whispered, finally beating back the tormented cry that had been coming unleashed.

A single tear dropped onto the photo and John cursed -- shouted, actually, at the tear, or himself, who knew? “No, you stupid fucker!” The spot was quickly sopped up with his shirt because he couldn’t have this photo ruined, couldn’t allow anything to mar its perfection. That might suggest that the memory of the moment, and of all he and Paul had shared, all they had been to each other, was imperfect too.

And it wasn’t. God, it wasn’t. It had been perfection, utter perfection. Perfect until they suddenly started to hurt each other. And then Paul and his light just...disappeared. 

Oh, God…

He was shivering, still. Could three Sinatra songs, a bit of whisky, and a few photos really have reduced him to this? And Yoko would likely be back, soon.

Shaking his head, John willed himself to pull it together. He put the pipe, the pictures, all the crazy buttons back into the box and quickly, a little drunkenly, headed back to the bookshelf hoping no one would ever notice that things had been disturbed. But he held back two of the images – the one of Paul sleeping, that dear face, in such familiar sweet slumber. It had been too long since he'd watched Paul sleep in beauty and he couldn’t bury it away again…and that breakfast image from the day after Shea. He meant to keep them, even if Yoko didn’t like it, and he quickly found a place for them where she would never look, in the box that held his harmonicas, so long untouched. A safe place for his Princess. _I miss you…_

He finished off the whisky and threw himself into the window seat, feeling utterly spent, willing away the memories that were coming at him from all sides, slipping into him, and bringing along with them all the feelings he thought he’d packed away, so long ago.

Who was he kidding, he could never pack like McCartney, could never put a piece of himself in a box, and toss it into some attic-compartment in his brain and forget it. _Don’t look back, Johnny, what’s the use? It only hurts and I don’t get off on hurting._

_Paulie…Christ, Paul…_

And the door opened, and there was Yoko, taking off her shoes, turning to see John tucked into himself, trembling and wiping his nose with a sleeve. She raised an eyebrow. “You alright?”

John barked out a strained laugh. “I’m fine. Fuck me if I ever listen to Sinatra again with a good whisky and no one around to hold my hand. Got me all snot-faced and weepy, you know.”

“Which song,” she smirked.

“A couple. ‘One for My Baby’ and ‘What’s New?’ and that tricky bastard, ‘Angel Eyes’.”

“Oh. It’s good music,” Yoko said as she started out of the room. “I like Ella Fitzgerald for it, though. I’m going to bed, you coming?”

“I am,” John said, lifting himself up and staggering only a little. “Sod this for a night. You know, love, I think I might like Ella better for these old songs, too.” She doesn’t make me cry." _Cry, baby, cry…_

_Oh, where is my angel eyes?_

“Don’t forget the light,” he heard Yoko call.

“No, I won’t." John answered with one last, shivery breath. "I'm good at turning out the light.”

_‘scuse me, while I...disappear_

**Author's Note:**

> Note: The exchange between Paul McCartney and the hair-obsessed reporter took place in New York City on August 21, 1966. You can see it here at about 1:34:40 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rmqFjw1HjRY&t=5732s
> 
> Paul “sparked” at substitute drummer Jimmy Nicol during a press conference in Adeaide. You can see it on this video, starting about at about 3:29. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pkpu5OHzu18


End file.
